


Purpled

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lobelia and Otho have never treated Frodo well, but Sam always has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purpled

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I didn’t tag child abuse because Frodo would be in his thirties here, which is young for a hobbit but still doesn’t quite equate to human childhood.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s too bright a day for this. The sun’s clear of clouds, the grass lush and soft beneath him, flowers blooming everywhere he looks—the Bag End gardens are always beautiful. It feels like it should be grey and raining, instead of beckoning him to run through the fields and out into the woods.

He’s too sore to run today. Slumped behind the hill, Frodo hunches over, trying to look dull and not worth talking to. He doesn’t want to explain what happened, because it’s the same thing that _always_ happens—he let a little bit of himself slip, and his stepparents went through the roof. He never understands why they took him in at all, when they seem to hate everything he stands for, and just opening his mouth can earn him a black eye. It’s his lip that’s split today, his cheek sporting a round bruise and his temple trickling blood. He should’ve run faster, out the door and down the hill. 

But then _Sam_ wouldn’t have found him. And it’s worth it, in a way, to have taken the beating and be here now, with Sam paying him full attention. Sam will get an earful on his own for spending time away from the gardens, but Sam’s never once picked a flower over Frodo. He sits between Frodo’s spread legs and runs a damp cloth over Frodo’s face, gently dabbing at the scabs. Sam wipes the taste of copper away, quiet and frowning. 

He’s smiled at Frodo, once or twice. It’s always made Frodo’s heart flip. But the older Lobelia and Otho get, the angrier they become, and the more Frodo wanders out black and blue, and the more Sam looks heartbroken. Sam’s the only good thing in all of Hobbiton, as far as Frodo’s concerned, and it hurts to see that hurt. 

But he relishes the closeness anyway. Frodo watches Sam from under half lidded eyes, then closes them and simply basks in Sam’s attention, the soft care and consideration that no one else has ever given him. There’s rumours about him; he’s a _strange_ one. All improper. Odd and holding odd ideals. Most think it’s good that his stepparents ‘keep him in line.’ Sam doesn’t. 

Sam lets out a pained sigh as he dips the cloth back into his watering can, and Frodo mumbles, “It’s my own fault.”

“It’s not,” Sam answers immediately. He always says that. Frodo shakes his head, leaning in when Sam’s hand returns to his cheek.

“They caught me singing a song about the mountains. I should know better.” 

“They’re awful,” Sam mutters bitterly, scowling. It isn’t like him to speak ill of his employers; he’s always mild-mannered, sweet and strong, the sort of sturdy comfort that keeps Frodo _sane_. In just another year, Frodo will be old enough to leave them. But he’ll have nothing to his name, and Sam will still be their gardener, and Frodo doesn’t know what he’d do if he left Sam behind. Strangely fierce, Sam insists, “It wouldn’t matter if you were setting fire to the pots; no one deserves this.” Frodo finds himself smiling, and it splits his lip open again. Sam runs the cloth back to it. 

Lifting another hand to tilt Frodo’s face towards him, Sam inspects the surface for more cuts. Old wounds often bloom again with the abuse littered over them, but Sam takes care of what he can. They don’t pay him nearly enough. But then, if they knew about any of this, they probably wouldn’t pay him at all. Frodo’s almost certain the Lobelia and Otho would rather the gardens and Frodo both die off than the both of them thrive. 

As Sam’s fingers slip away, his shoulders slump, and he asks dejectedly, “Isn’t there anywhere you could go? You have friends that love you, Mr. Frodo, ones that don’t have Old Gaffers at home to bicker over what’s ‘proper’ and not...”

Frodo _wishes_ he could live with Sam. He used to daydream about it, when he was little, Sam riding in like an elf or ranger in the forbidden stories, on a stout little pony to carry him off. He didn’t realize back then how afraid hobbits are of scandal. 

He thinks of the few friends he does have, Brandybucks and Tooks, but they’re all the way in Buckland. Merry’s offered for Frodo to stay with him a few times. But then he wouldn’t see _Sam_ anymore, and Frodo doesn’t know if he could take that. 

He half expects Sam to leave now, having wiped away the blood, to go tend to the hedges or whatever else Lobelia wants. Frodo isn’t something he can fix, isn’t something he’s paid for or even something he should touch at all. But Sam sits where he is and insists, sincere and strained, “You _can’t_ stay here.”

Frodo shakes his head. Sam sighs, “Frodo...”

And Frodo breaks, fighting back tears and mumbling, “Merry...”

“He’d take you,” Sam insists, grasping on and leaning forward. He puts one hand on Frodo’s knee and says, reverent and sure, “I’ve seen your friends, and they love you, Frodo. How could they not? You’re _wonderful_. You’re worth so much more than this. I could even send some of my wages, for room and board...” 

Frodo half laughs, half chokes on a sob. He couldn’t take Sam’s money, and Sam couldn’t afford that anyway. But Merry would take him. He knows that. It’s just that he doesn’t want to leave this, until Sam says, “I’ll take you there, Frodo. I promise. Will you really go? I’ll take you tonight, if you will.”

Surprised, Frodo looks up at him. Sam’s cheeks flush, but he looks determined. Still, he hesitates and adds, “If that’s alright with you, of course... it’s just that I’d like to get you safe as soon as I could...”

Frodo mumbles, “You’re too good to me, Sam,” and then, “But the Gamgees work at Bag End...”

“Sams work for Frodos,” he corrects, just as strong as Frodo’s always thought him. “There are gardens that need tending in the other farthings, I’m sure. It’s just that I’d like to stay with you, if I could. To make sure you’re alright and all. If... if you’ll have me...”

“Of course I’ll have you,” Frodo practically splutters. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I mean it.” Sam’s barely finished saying it before Frodo’s lunged forward, latching tightly onto him. Sam lets out a little ‘oof’ but wraps his arms back around Frodo, loose and comforting. The tremours of tears are still wracking Frodo’s body, but now the emotional river’s switched more to relief and joy. It isn’t his right to drag Sam away from his family, clear across the Shire, but Frodo’s too happy for it to argue right now. He thinks he could make Sam happy, if he had a chance to get on his own two feet. Sam’s always liked him just the way he is. 

Sam asks, “You’ll go, then?” And Frodo nods into Sam’s shoulder. If Sam picked him up right now and carried him off, he’d be perfectly content. 

But Lobelia ruins everything, and her shrill voice suddenly shrieks from over the hill, “Frodo! Frodo Baggins, I know you’re out there! You get home right now!” Frodo winces in Sam’s arms, and Sam holds him all the fiercer. 

It’ll be worse if Frodo isn’t quick, the worst if they get caught. He forces himself to push away from Sam, mumbling, “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll come by tonight,” Sam promises. “I’ll knock twice on your window so you’ll know it’s me, and I’ll help you gather and carry your things. I’ll bring some food from home and leave a letter for my Gaffer, and we’ll... we’ll march right off to Buckland!” He looks mildly terrified at the idea but mostly resolute. It gives Frodo the strength he needed.

He says, “Thank you,” and it comes out a breathy relief. 

Then, before he can stop himself, he’s leaning in to press his face against Sam’s, brushing their lips together. Sam goes still against him, but he’s pulled back only a second later. Sam seems spellbound, then touches his lips and smiles. 

Lobelia’s shout sounds again, and Frodo has to run off, until the night falls, and his Sam shows up outside his window, like all his sun and stars.


End file.
